It's Not Love
by jesterjessie
Summary: 'It's not love, whatever it is she's doing with Quinn. It's not love that has her knee bouncing nervously as soon as she takes her seat on the 10.07 train to New Haven, just like she does every Saturday, the familiar view passing unseen before dark eyes as she stares blankly out of the window. It can't be.'
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own Glee.

**Author's note:** You lucky puppies, two posts from me in one night! The idea for this has been kicking around for a while, a little 'what if...' continuation of the Quinntana storyline started in 'I Do'. I've published the first chapter today to coincide with the Headcanon day of Quinntana Week on Tumblr, but I will be continuing it, so fear not! I hope you enjoy the story, and I would love to hear any thoughts you have on it, positive or negative. Enjoy!

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It's not love, whatever it is she's doing with Quinn. It's not love that has her knee bouncing nervously as soon as she takes her seat on the 10.07 train to New Haven, just like she does every Saturday, the familiar view passing unseen before dark eyes as she stares blankly out of the window.

It can't be.

It's not love, but the breath is still punched from Santana's throat as the soft winter sun flickers over the remnants of last week's snow, the pure light of the scene recalling another pale landscape upon which the light likes to settle. She closes her eyes and swallows, once, twice, yet the image of tan fingers stroking gently over a pale cheek beneath the moonlight that filtered through the window of a small dorm room in New Haven plays on against her eyelids. Pressing her head against the cool glass does nothing to stop the memory of her last visit, and Santana only just manages to hold back the whimper that threatens to slip from her lips as she recalls how the sheet wrapped around the pair of them had shifted, exposing skin she had previously hurried to cover in soft yet insistent kisses, a silent worship to slight body stretched out beneath her.

(The few faded stretch marks and scars do nothing to mar the beauty of Quinn's body; she sees them more as marks of experience, pointers to the strength of the blonde's character, than as imperfections, but she has never been able to tell her that. To do so always seems a step too far, too intimate, and a noose of fear always tightens around the words before she can whisper them because that isn't what this is. She only hopes that Quinn understands the stroke of her fingers along their length, the lingering press of her lips upon them, that she hears the words Santana can't find it in her to say.)

Two years ago her eyes would have flicked down, greedily drinking in the expanse of skin being offered to her, but Quinn had chosen that moment to flutter her eyes open and Santana had found herself trapped, held prisoner by the glow of hazel reflecting the pale moonlight. Neither girl had said anything, a ball of nerves tightening sickeningly in Santana's stomach as Quinn's brow had furrowed briefly in confusion before smoothing out, her eyes still holding Santana captive. The back of her neck had prickled uncomfortably and her leg had twitched as the urge to run, run, run consumed her, but if Quinn had noticed the movement, she'd never said; she had simply kept staring into Santana's eyes, waiting out the passing minutes until the Latina's muscles had relaxed, weight sinking back into her half of the small bed.

The memory terrifies her.

Santana sighs and, with a slight shake of her head, forces her eyes open as the train slowly pulls into the next stop. She shifts closer to the window as somebody drops down heavily into the seat next to her, bringing with him the lingering stench of stale sweat layered under a cheap body-spray and a complete disregard for personal space. It's almost enough to make her wish for the journey to pass more quickly, until the train pulls away from the platform with a jerk and she realises just how unprepared she is to see Quinn again. There's nothing Santana hates more than being unprepared, than not knowing how to navigate and control a situation, so she settles for scowling at the man before resuming her vacant stare out of the window, distance to New Haven melting away with every turn of the train's wheels.

Quinn Fabray has always been the one person able to launch her world into confusion.

She doesn't know how she fell into this arrangement with Quinn. She struggles to find the words to describe it honestly, even if it is only to herself. Kurt and Rachel know she spends every weekend visiting her best friend (_one of_ her best friends, her mind corrects, but the two have barely spoken to her about Brittany, seemingly assuming that Quinn has usurped the other blonde's friendship) but they have no idea about the recent developments in their relationship. She's glad of their ignorance, sure she would snap under the deluge of questions that would no doubt come her way, but Santana has matured enough since junior year to realise without prompting when she needs outside help to sort through the mess of emotions into which she often works herself. Yet seeing as the only people with whom she could ever contemplate talking about something feelings-related are Brittany and Quinn, she's finding herself somewhat directionless. Even the briefest of conversations with Brittany exhausts her these days, throat tightening around an increasingly painful lump as she fights to hide from her voice all evidence of the tears forming over just how damn _happy_ her ex-girlfriend sounds.

(It's made worse by the fact that Brittany seems to have stopped noticing the weakness in her voice when they talk. Or to have stopped caring. She doesn't know which one she's hoping for.)

Still, even if Santana were able to hold a conversation with her ex-girlfriend without being overwhelmed by the crashing wave of hurt summoned by her voice, asking for Brittany's help in defining whatever it is she's doing with Quinn would be a realm of awkwardness into which she's not ready to stray. But now she's left at a loss for where to turn for advice, mind struggling to orchestrate a reaction when it doesn't understand the situation to which it's reacting. The Latina isn't one for superfluous niceties, but _fucking _seems too crude, too dismissive, too _impersonal_ to describe what she's doing with Quinn, the word stinging her ears as the image of the girl into whose embrace she falls so easily paints itself across the train window. By contrast, calling it anything more than fucking seems too personal, like she's giving a name to feelings that don't exist. That can't exist. Her heart shudders along to the rhythm of the train because she can't be the girl that falls for both of her best friends, she just can't be.

It was never meant to last beyond the time spent within the confines of a Lima hotel room; there had been no desire to discover more of the soft skin brushing against her own as she woke up next to Quinn, blonde hair mixed in with darker strands from where the other girl had shuffled across to Santana's pillow in her sleep. Strangely, for the first time in three years marred by slaps and tears, petty fights over positions that slipped away meaninglessly after graduation and love triangles that were more about the status than the relationship, Santana had felt like she'd found her best friend. All the hostility that had festered over the years had disappeared, discarded among the clothes littering the floor, sweated out beneath hotel sheets, carried away by soft snores that filled the empty space. The taxi to Columbus airport had been marked, not by strained silences and flushed cheeks when eyes caught, but by insistent promises to stay in touch, for Santana to make use of the train pass doing little more than decorating Rachel's room, for Quinn to make space in her life, in her bed, whenever the Latina chose to visit.

(Quinn is still nervous in cars. Crushed metal and shattered glass were visible in her eyes as she'd climbed into taxi, body tense like a diver before a plunge. Her fingers had scratched over the cheap leather covering the seats, searching desperately for purchase, throat dragging painful breaths from the air as her muscles tightened at every sudden brake, every blaring horn. Santana had said nothing as she slid tan fingers over to tangle with trembling pale ones, nodding at the soft 'thank you' that fell from Quinn's lips as she kept her gaze fixed out of the window, staring out at a landscape she'd finally escaped. This was what they did. They grounded each other.)

Inexplicable warmth shoots through Santana as she overhears the young mother behind her inform her incredibly whiny child, whose clear love of kicking the back of her chair would have earned him a threatening glare were she not so completely swamped by her thoughts, that they've crossed into Connecticut. The realisation that she's closer to her...that she's closer to Quinn shouldn't comfort her as much as it does.

She's just a friend. Just a friend with whom she likes to have sex.

(The man sprawled next to her chooses that moment to laugh at whatever he's reading on his phone, but the more insecure part of Santana can't help but think he's laughing at her stubborn refusal to even _think_ about the possibility of there being something more.)

Neither Rachel nor Kurt know that she had fled to New Haven after they kicked her out, shaky fingers instinctively dialling Quinn's number as she'd realised, shivering beneath the cold flakes coating New York, that she had nowhere to go. She hadn't seen her since the wedding, Quinn's life taken over by a flurry of essays she'd neglected in favour of travelling to Lima, yet Quinn had all but ordered her to catch the next train to her.

Santana smiles as the snow-covered trees thin, fading away to be replaced by a nameless Connecticut town, the grey slabs of anonymity nothing like the impressive architecture awaiting her. She can remember the first time she saw Yale, the churning feeling of abandonment finally replaced by an excitement to see her friend as the train had groaned its way into New Haven station; Quinn had grabbed her in a hug the moment her foot had touched the icy platform before picking up Santana's bag and dragging the bemused Latina onto the nearest campus-bound bus. Her throat tightens instinctively as she remembers how her breath had stuck at her first glimpse of the university through a window fogged by the hot breaths of their fellow passengers, struck an innate sense of _Quinn_ that seemed to be woven into the fabric of the place. The buildings radiate a maturity, brickwork infused with wisdom yet also a delight at new discoveries, a desire to never stop appreciating the depth of the world.

Santana had instantly understood why the blonde sat beside her, staring out at the same buildings with a soft smile playing about her lips, looked more at home in New Haven than she ever had in Lima.

Her third night there, uneasy with how willing she was to spend evenings curled up with Quinn in front of her laptop, Santana had dragged her friend to a frat party happening across campus, determination to 'see how you uptight geeks party' spilling from her lips as she'd wriggled into one of her tighter dresses, ignoring the lingering burn of Quinn's eyes on her back. Somewhere between knocking the drink out of the hand of the sixth boy to try and grope her in an hour and dropping into an all-night deli on the way back to the dorm room to pick up a carton of ice-cream, Santana's hand had slipped into Quinn's, the gentle squeeze of fingers a constant presence until they had made it back to the dorm. Quinn had somehow managed snag a single room, tucked away cosily in the back corner of a hauntingly beautiful dorm building, though whether it was because of the accident Santana still hates to think about or because the universe had finally decided to smile upon her after so long showering her in a downpour of disastrous luck, she didn't know. Setting the ice-cream on the desk, Santana had turned to say how the solitary room was a perfect excuse to stay as late as she could at parties, but the words had floated away on a gasp as she found Quinn staring at her, illuminated only by the wintry moonlight falling through the window. Hazel held brown in silence, neither girl moving for fear of shattering the heavy atmosphere settling over them. A look of vulnerability had flickered over Quinn's face as her fingers danced at the hem of her top, white teeth digging into a pink lip as she'd pulled the material up and over her head tantalisingly slowly, and Santana had found she had no breath left with which to gasp. She had given Quinn no time to voice the words her lips were trying to form as she strode into the moonlight, hands gently cupping Quinn's face before bringing it down to crash the lips still being worried by brilliantly white teeth into her own.

The ice-cream had melted by the time they'd remembered it the next morning.

Santana's cheeks redden as a bump in the track jolts her from the memory, thoughts ripped away from rapidly discarded clothes and the lingering warmth of sheets as she had woken up to a note from Quinn, a hastily scribbled explanation that the blonde had gone to class but would be back with coffee, not ten minutes before the girl in question had stepped through the door. She presses her forehead to the window again in a vain attempt to cool the spreading flush, the fluttering in her chest doing nothing to support her belief that what she's journeying to is nothing more than a casual arrangement between two friends. Part of her feels awful for hoping there is nothing substantial to this thing with Quinn, but Santana's jaded now, no longer the optimistic senior ready to take on the world with her girlfriend. She's seen how feelings, how relationships, can destroy a friendship, felt years' worth of support and laughter and love wither away under awkward conversations and ill-timed glances.

She can't commit another friendship to the same death.

Her weekend travels to New Haven have become an accepted part of her routine. Neither Rachel nor Kurt question them she avoids any potential probing enquiries into her personal life by investing entirely too much time and energy into theirs. It had backfired slightly with the Brody fiasco several months earlier, but as the crackling announcement that they're nearing New Haven station pierces the calm atmosphere of the carriage and that same damn _warmth_ surges through her, Santana wonders whether she can still view the consequences of her involvement so negatively. She had woken up on her fifth morning in New Haven, ear capturing the steady beat of Quinn's heart where her head lay upon her chest, to a message from Rachel, an apology that sounded as if it had been painful to write followed by a sheepish request to come back. Agreement had shot through her mind instantly but the vindictive side of her, one that had diminished but not truly disappeared since high school, had directed her fingers into tapping out a reply that said she would be back in a few days, partly so to make Rachel understand how rejected she'd felt and partly to make it sound like she _did _have other options.

(At least that's what she tells herself. She still hasn't forgotten the flash of disappointment across Quinn's face when she had shown her the text.)

She's already waiting by the door as the train grinds to a stop, platform just as icy as it was the first time she stepped onto it, but she has no need to worry about balance when she's grabbed into the customary 'welcome back' hug from Quinn. Maybe Quinn has sensed Santana's reservations, or maybe unique worries jostle for space in the blonde's mind, but either way Santana is always relieved that Quinn doesn't greet her with a kiss, that she doesn't try to hold her hand; Santana's walls have been damaged over the years and are no longer able to contain the full range of panic they once were. Gloved fingers pry the handle of her case from Santana's hand, and the Latina rolls her eyes at the familiar gesture.

"Who knew Yale would make you so damn chivalrous, Q?"

"Shut up," Quinn laughs, already turning to lead the way to the bus stop. "You love it."

Quinn isn't expecting a reply, Santana knows she isn't as she watches the blonde rummage through her bag for her campus ID, yet she can't help but think that the way her shoulders stiffen and her head jerks in an instinctive nod is answer enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Any characters you recognise are not my own. Unfortunately.

**Author's note: **I know, I know, I'm useless; it seems to have been forever since I posted the first chapter. The only thing I can do is apologise - I was on my Easter break from university and days were simply lost to revision and catching up with friends. I'm heading into exam season right now, so I won't be able to commit to weekly updates until June, but I hope to have one more chapter before then.

Before I let you loose on the chapter, I just want to thank everyone who was part of the fantastic response I received to the first chapter. Your reviews/favourites/follows mean a lot to me, so take this chapter as my gratitude. As always, I'd love to hear what you think, whether good or bad, so don't hesitate to drop me a review! Enjoy the chapter, guys.

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"I'm sorry."

It isn't particularly loud, the comfortable silence easing the pain of a liquor-fuelled movie night more peeled back than shattered completely, but Quinn's eyes are still dragged away from whichever dog-eared classic she's delving into this week as the words float through the space between them. Santana feels the goosebumps erupt beneath her fingertips as Quinn realises where her hand is resting, tan fingers contrasting so starkly with the ghostly white stretch mark that curls itself around the skin above the blonde's left hip, an unwelcome embrace from which she can never escape. Santana doesn't lift her eyes to meet the curious stare she can feel burning the top of her head, too busy tracking them back and forth over the length of the mark as Quinn shifts self-consciously beneath the prickling intensity of her gaze.

She wonders if Quinn's heart cracks at the realisation that such an all-consuming period in her life has been reduced to this, to nothing more than scattered marks on pale skin, torturous memories of piercing first cries and the handful of photos that are sent twice a year.

"For what?" Quinn ventures softly, book lying abandoned on the crumpled pillow dragged from her closet every weekend.

"I should have been there. When...when all this went down, I should have been there," she eventually mumbles, the words stiff as they force themselves past her lips, fighting to support the weight of the guilt and regret tied into every syllable. Similar thoughts have plagued her mind ever since she confronted Rachel about the positive pregnancy test, the strength of the sobs barely muffled against her neck jolting the Latina's mind back to sophomore year. Nausea had clawed at her throat as she waited outside the doctor's office for Rachel, anxiety over her roommate churning sickeningly with the realisation that this must have been so much worse for sixteen year old Quinn, that it must have felt like the world was crashing down among the out of date magazines and withered plants.

It's not strange that it has taken so long for comforting the tearful diva to translate into a vocal reflection on how she failed Quinn. She always pays attention to the marks when they fall into each other, lips dragging over them in a reverence she knows burns Quinn's skin, but it has never seemed appropriate to extinguish the passion that drips from their bodies with a softly spoken reminder of the blonde's past. Yet mornings spent curled around each other, warmth passing between skin pressed tightly together, have only recently crept into their relationship, eased in after weeks of the seemingly limitless excuses that allowed Quinn to slip from beneath the sheets and out through the door. It had long been one of the many truths of their friendship that Quinn always woke before Santana, the blonde's unique ability to rouse the Latina in time for morning inspections by the senior cheerleaders on their first camp together one of the things that drew her to the girl with poorly-hidden fear in her eyes.

Yale was hectic in the very best of ways, the whirlwind of learning providing Quinn with a security for which she had always unwittingly yearned, and it could easily furnish her with excuses to scurry away, jacket wrapped tight against the biting cold that punished her for leaving the still-slumbering Latina as she sped to hastily organised study groups, to meetings with tutors and to unnecessary visits to the library. The morning after the frat party, as a weak sun and the distant sounds of students heading to class filtered through her window, Quinn had nearly toppled from the small bed, the tan arm hooked loosely around her waist the only anchor against the heavy anxiety pressing on her chest. Twice she had fallen into bed with her best friend and both times she had been the one to initiate it, albeit with the sting of liquid courage lingering in the back of her throat. Her lecture had offered a welcome escape yet the professor's words had drifted unnoticed past her ears, lost to the shadowy corners of the lecture hall as the blonde floundered in a sea of whys and hows. So much of Quinn's life was changing and she wasn't sure how ready she was for the friendship she'd selfishly assumed was unalterable to do the same, for the itch of self-doubt that would inevitably keep her awake over the coming nights, something she'd always taken for granted about herself destroyed beneath the soft strokes of Santana's fingers.

It was only Santana's near constant presence, a forgotten hoody enough to mark her claim on the room when she ventured back to New York during the week, which had put an end to Quinn's early morning escapes. The Latina was no fleeting visitor to her life, no momentary blip that could be deleted in order to follow the path her parents had always planned for her, and it was that realisation which made her want to sift through her feelings, to spurn the trademark Fabray mask of indifference, taught to her years before between gulps of whiskey and snide comments about the new family two doors down. She had still been too proud (or scared) to turn to anyone she knew for help, but once again Yale had provided the answer in the form of confidential night-time 'listeners', student counsellors she could reach through a few nervously punched digits. Eventually, Quinn had found the bravery to linger in the warmth provided by Santana's body; she had still made sure to be out of the bed by the time her best friend's eyes fluttered open, unsure how Santana would react to waking up with her arms wrapped around Quinn, yet she'd begun allowing herself the pleasure of diving into countless fictional worlds, tethered to reality only by the Latina's embrace.

(A desperate fear whispered at the back of Quinn's mind that waking up to a flash of hazel would stir some regret in Santana over waking up next to the wrong blonde.)

(Santana had quickly faked a cough into the crook of her elbow to hide the shy smile sliding over her lips the first time she woke to find Quinn curled up in her desk chair, a novel propped on her knees and a lip caught between her teeth.)

The routine became one the pair danced for weeks, albeit unknowingly on Santana's part, and Quinn drew comfort from the increasing familiarity of the choreography. It wasn't until two weeks ago that she remembered improvisation had always been Santana's style, uncertainty stifling her as all the carefully established rules disintegrated, melting into a cold sweat on the back of her neck. The flutter of tan eyelids signalled Quinn's departure from the bed, yet the arms around her waist had tightened before she could manoeuvre herself from beneath the sheets. Muscles froze beneath pale skin as her mind grappled with the change, the scrunch of a nose visible in the corner of her eye telling her she had mere seconds before Santana awoke. The arms locked round her waist had tensed briefly, a sleepy gaze painting red across Quinn's cheeks and neck, before the mattress had dipped, Santana shuffling closer to press a soft kiss to the blonde's shoulder, a rough 'Morning, Q' falling from between plump lips.

Just like that, cuddling in the mornings became something they did.

(Santana knew it wasn't something _friends_ did, but ignorance had long been one of her closest allies, the beat of Quinn's heart and the smell of old paper enough to keep the straining box of panic tucked away in the back of her mind.)

"What? Don't be...c'mon S, that's...that's stu-..."

"It's not," Santana interrupts fiercely, only lifting her gaze to meet Quinn's when she can no longer feel the prickle of guilty tears. "You were...fuck, you were kicked out of your home, Q, and I was too fucking self-absorbed to actually stand up and act like your best friend."

The guilt over the flash of hurt in Quinn's eyes doesn't begin to compare to the one that has been brewing for the past three years yet it still feels like she has been stabbed in the chest, knife twisting mercilessly as the blonde shakes her head to dislodge the memory.

"C'mere," Quinn whispers, and Santana almost refuses before insistent hands guide her up the bed, novel swiftly moved out of the way so her head can fall into its dent on the pillow. "You have nothing to be sorry for, S."

The Latina only just stops herself from smirking at the familiar eyebrow quirk Quinn uses to silence the objection building at the back of her throat.

"You were dealing with a bunch of your own stuff back then...I mean, I was practically non-existent when everything went on with Finn and the commercial and your grandmother," the blonde continues softly. "Yeah, at the time, I wished you'd been around more but I got through it and I'm stronger for it, and there's a beautiful little girl out there to prove it. I forgave you a long time ago, S."

The conviction shining clearly in Quinn's eyes loosens the ball of tension in her chest, but Santana wishes she could forgive herself as easily.

Silence stretches between them, a jerky nod the only acknowledgement Santana gives, and the seconds tick away into nothingness. Something else begins to build, visible in the drift of dark eyes to rosy lips, in the quickened breaths at unbidden thoughts and the gentle flush over pale cheeks, yet it's banished as quickly as it appears, the connection snapped as Santana rolls onto her back and glues her eyes to the ceiling. Quinn mirrors the action, swallowing down her rising bravery as the sting of rejection skates over her skin.

The awkwardness swells as minutes pass without a word and it's almost enough to make Santana want to flee, to catch a train home today, if she didn't know she'd regret it. Instead she sighs and turns her head to face Quinn, wincing slightly at the frozen look on the blonde's face.

"Breakfast?"

* * *

Santana's only been introduced to a handful of Quinn's friends at Yale - the small group from the blonde's dorm block with whom they walk to parties; the members of various classes or study groups who drop by for a book or some notes, yet invariably end up staying for a half-hour conversation; and the adorably sweet Swedish student who works in Quinn's favourite coffee shop, perfect for Kurt if her roommate weren't still hung up on Eyebrows (a grace Santana privately thinks the younger boy doesn't deserve) - but she is sure she would have remembered the smirk plastered across the face of the boy approaching their table, tucked away in the corner of the coffee shop by the window so they can lazily watch the stream of people past the glass. The ease with which he throws himself down into the empty chair next to Quinn suggest he knows her, but the tightness of the smile the blonde throws at him suggests she would hesitate to label him as a friend.

"I don't think we've been introduced," he grins, leaning heavily on the edge of the table in a way that threatens to tip over their drinks.

Santana wants to gag at how clichéd it all is.

"Stefan, this is Santana. Santana, this is Stefan. He's in my Theatre Studies class," Quinn murmurs by way of an explanation, hazel eyes glimmering apologetically over the rim of her coffee cup.

"Santana," the boy repeats, rolling her name around his mouth in a way that makes Santana want to grimace. "Pretty name for a pretty girl."

She immediately decides Stefan is some sort of hideous prediction of what the lovechild of Puck and Sebastian Smythe would be, arrogance held back just enough that he can pass it off as charming. The brutally witty put-down springs to the tip of her tongue, jabs ready to spear the boy's ego, but she swallows it down, not wanting to cause any unnecessary trouble for Quinn.

"You know what they say, if it walks like a duck..." she snarks as Stefan nods absently, the obvious glance to her cleavage enough of a distraction that he doesn't listen to a word she says.

"So, I don't know if you have any plans later, but I know this great bar we can get into, no questions asked," he trails off suggestively, eyebrows waggling in a way that has Santana itching to slap him.

"She's not interested," Quinn cuts in, setting her coffee cup sharply down on the table, and Santana would be lying if she said her heart didn't clench at the possessiveness in the blonde's voice.

"Most girls aren't until they are," he shrugs, smirk still in place as he glances dismissively at Quinn before fixing his attention back on Santana.

"Yeah, except I'm really not," Santana forces out through clenched teeth. "I'm gay, so the only way I'll be going to any bar in New Haven is with Quinn."

She means to say 'is with a girl' but the blonde's name tumbles from her lips as Santana glances at her, Quinn's neck flushing slightly just as Stefan whips his head round to face her, eyes gleaming as if he's stumbled onto some scandalous information.

"You didn't say she was your girlfriend, Quinn," he grins, prompting the flush to spread to her cheeks.

The denial splutters from Santana's lips before she can stop it, an instant reaction to the warmth she feels at being labelled Quinn's girlfriend.

"We're not...she's not my girlfriend. Dios, a gay girl can be friends with another girl without it meaning they're dating. Why don't you fuck off back to whatever smelly frat house you crawled out of and leave us in peace, okay?"

The bite in her voice is enough to prompt him to stand and walk away, chair scraping noisily against the floor as he does so, yet the smirk is still in place, and Santana has to grip the edge of her seat to stop herself from following him. An uncomfortable silence descends over the table, Quinn avoiding Santana's eyes as she waits for the blush to fade from her cheeks and the hurt to dissolve in her eyes, lump forming in her throat at just how quickly Santana had shot down the idea of them dating. For her part, Santana forces herself to focus on the busy square visible through the window, trying to lose the mess of feelings engulfing her in the mass of strangers at whom she is staring. Plates lie abandoned in the centre of the table, appetites destroyed by the bitter aftertaste of the brief conversation, and words hang unsaid between them; Santana replays the conversation in her head, analysing every word that slipped from her mouth, until she turns to Quinn with questions dancing in her eyes and burning the skin of her lips.

"Q," she starts, clearing her throat before continuing. "Why would he think I'm your girlfriend just like that? Like, why would that be a natural conclusion for him to jump to?"

Quinn shifts uncomfortably in her seat before meeting Santana's eyes, and the Latina nearly gasps as she recognises the fear swirling desperate patterns in hazel.

It's the same one she saw reflected in her mirror for years.

"I...I guess because I've realised I'm not...I'm not straight. A-And I figured, if you can't be yourself at college, where can you?" she mumbles, deliberately keeping her voice soft, yet Santana doesn't miss the tremor that shakes her words.

She knows she should react, respond to Quinn's confession, tell her how proud she is of the blonde for coming to terms with herself, but she's frozen, jaw stiff against the onslaught of words demanding to be heard. An alarm is shrieking somewhere in her mind, the scared voice that had captured her thoughts on the train ride yesterday screaming that this is too much, too intimate, that she should run before she lets herself fall into something that will hurt her.

(If she were to let her thoughts roam free, if she stopped policing her own mind, she'd probably realise she's already there.)

Silence falls again, one that isn't broken until Quinn quietly suggests they head back to her dorm.

* * *

They avoid serious topics for the rest of the day, conversation purposefully kept light, yet the talk they both realise they need to have lingers by the walls of the small room, calling their attention whenever sentences taper off into nothingness. Eyes aren't given the opportunity to rest on exposed skin, averted before they can be caught, and Quinn excuses herself to the bathroom to change for the first time in longer than Santana cares to remember. It's a relief when the knock sounds against Quinn's door; they both have believable smiles in place by the time the blonde pulls open the door to reveal the group with whom they go to parties, inviting them in as Santana apologises for the delay, searching the room for her purse until Quinn hands it to her. Santana nods gratefully, sheepish smile mirrored on her friend's face, before they usher everyone out the door, the Latina hurrying them along with the demand that they 'walk faster because I wants to get my drink on'.

Quinn never made an appearance at Sunday night parties before Santana started visiting; her obligation to her psychology lecture early on Monday mornings had always crushed the draw of cheap beer and worse conversation, but the walls have rung with a thick tension ever since she started rejecting Professor Mitchell's advances and she has more than enough friends in the class from whom she can copy notes. Neither of them are awake enough by Saturday evening to venture out to a party, Santana drained from working the Friday night closing shift at the bar and Quinn drowsy from working all day, so Saturday nights are turned over to the growing stack of movies on the dorm room floor, accompanied by whatever alcohol the Latina has managed to procure, and Quinn has allowed herself to be dragged out on Sundays.

The numerous bodies sprawled out across the grass, trapped in various states of drunkenness and nudity, confirm they've arrived at the right place, a shiver of anticipation flickering through the group to the tune of the thump of music spilling out onto the street. The entire group winces as they step through the open front door and Santana immediately directs them to the kitchen (Quinn's friends still marvel at Santana's ability to always know where the alcohol is at a party, even if it is stashed somewhere strange), more alcohol than is currently flowing through bloodstreams needed to endure the disproportionately loud bass.

Santana loses sight of Quinn once drinks have been sloppily mixed, but she's not especially worried; the party doesn't seem to be rowdy enough for anything seriously troubling to happen and, last she checked, Quinn hadn't been planning on getting spectacularly drunk. She follows three of the blonde's friends to the cluster of seats that become available in the corner of the living room, occupants stumbling their way across to the makeshift dance floor, and easily falls into conversation with them, glances shot around the room from time to time in search of the blonde. It's around an hour before she sees Quinn again, worry beginning to creep around the dullness of the vodka that's burned its way down her throat. The blonde is leaning against the wall on the other side of the writhing mess of dancers, chatting animatedly to a girl Santana doesn't recognise. Relief extinguishes the worry before white-hot jealousy flares in her stomach, fire flickering behind her eyes as she watches Quinn giggle at the hand that trails lightly up and down her arm, the way the other girl's arm is pressed against the wall by Quinn's head, body automatically tilted into the blonde, and the way that, even as she watches, the pair have shuffled closer together.

She drains the rest of her drink before roughly thrusting her cup into the hand of whoever is sitting beside her, pushing herself off her chair and across the floor before they can even attempt to ask for an explanation. The Latina is just drunk enough that the jealousy coursing through her spurs her on, rather than throws her into a panic, and the smirk falls naturally into place as she steps up to the pair, arm sliding round Quinn's waist.

"There you are, babe, I thought I'd lost you," she chuckles playfully, hoping that the other girl will think the way Quinn stiffens in her arms is because she's been caught flirting. Santana leans in to affectionately nuzzle the blonde's cheek, deliberately ignoring the second girl, alcohol stifling the voices that would normally be screaming that she needs to stop.

"I didn't realise you had a girlfriend, Q," rasps the other girl, and Santana bristles because that is _her_ nickname for the blonde, one that drags with it echoes of the years of history together, and isn't to be used by some drunk girl in search of a shag.

"I..." Quinn starts, shifting uncomfortably in the Latina's hold until she cuts in viciously.

(Santana doesn't miss the way Quinn's hand comes to rest on her back.)

"Clearly you must be crap at flirting then, if my girl didn't realise you were doing it, because let me assure you, she most definitely _does_ have a girlfriend and isn't looking for a fuck from someone as dirty looking as you. So how's about you run on home and put those fingers of yours to good use, because, let's face it, nobody in here wants to go anywhere near you with your pants off, and leave me and _my_ girl alone. Understand?"

Santana's eyes glitter viciously in the poorly lit room and it doesn't take long for the other girl to stamp away, forced shrug of indifference betraying the effects of the Latina's words; Quinn waits until she has disappeared into the garden before shoving Santana away roughly, dragging a hand through sweaty blonde locks in frustration.

(Santana aches to drag her tongue along the glistening collarbones, to lap at the dip between her neck and shoulder.)

"What the _fuck_ was that, Santana?" Santana opens her mouth to speak, dragging her eyes up to meet hazel ones darkened with anger, but the jumbled words of explanation preparing to fall into being are cut off as the blonde shakes her head irritably. "You know what, don't fucking bother. I'm going home."

Quinn pushes off the wall and brushes past Santana forcefully, shoulder knocking against shoulder to sway the Latina off balance, but she has no choice other than to follow, head lowered with a guilt she's too drunk to understand as she trails after Quinn on the way back to the dorm.

For the first time, Santana sleeps in the pyjamas she's only continued packing for the sake of appearance.

* * *

No mention is made of Quinn's outburst the next day, the morning lost in the usual rush to get Santana to the train station on time, but the awkwardness has returned, resting heavily on their shoulders and cutting conversations prematurely short. The bus ride, normally the stage for hysterical predictions over what Rachel and Kurt will have been up to over the weekend, is silent, eyes fixed in separate directions and enough space deliberately left between them that they don't jolt into each other even when the bus clatters over a pothole.

It feels as if something has broken.

Santana is half expecting Quinn to simply watch her climb off the bus at the station yet the blonde follows her, gravel crunching beneath her feet as she drops heavily from the vehicle. The platform is all but deserted, only a scattered few people intent on catching the train, and it provides Santana with no distraction from the wall Quinn has built around herself. She's held herself back all morning and the Latina has had enough, needing to know whether she's damaged whatever relationship has developed between the two of them irreparably; just as she opens her mouth to speak, Quinn's soft voice slices through the silence that's enveloped them since they awoke.

"I need you to give me something, S."

The quirk of Santana's eyebrow displays her confusion and Quinn sighs.

"I need...I need you to tell me what we are. Y-You say you're not my girlfriend but we have sex every weekend, we cuddle naked...then there was whatever the fuck that was last night. I need to know, Santana...I need to know if it's okay to greet you off the train with a kiss, to hold your hand as we go to breakfast...whether I should tell people that flirt with me that I'm seeing someone. What are we?" she begs desperately, cautious hope colouring the words till they grasp painfully at Santana's heart. "What are we?"

The truth strains to burst forth from her throat, arms itching to wrap themselves around the blonde so she can press kisses into the soft blonde hair, but that ever-present fear saps the moisture from her mouth and the words dissolve into an awkward cough.

"We...w-we're just having fun, Q," she mutters as she train chugs its way into view.

The hurt in Quinn's eyes is quickly replaced by scorn as she sees the truth lying uncomfortably in Santana's. They both know what the Latina is, yet neither needs to voice the word for it to hang heavily in the air, for it to burn Santana's ears with shame long after she's stepped off the rickety train into the din of New York, so different to respectful calm of New Haven.

Coward.

* * *

**Author's note (2): **I have no idea if Sunday night parties are a thing at Yale, but going out on a Sunday is pretty popular at my university, so I used that as my inspiration.


	3. Author's Note

Okay, I promised myself I would never make one of these author's notes that interrupt a story, but I noticed I've been losing followers on this because it's been so long since I updated, so I just wanted to let you know what's been going on.

I'm sorry! I said on the last chapter that I had exams coming up and would be going into a month and a bit of pretty much solid revision/exams; I did say that I hoped I would be able to post another chapter before I started the exams themselves, and before I can go back to writing regularly at the end of May/start of June. Unfortunately I underestimated how much work I'd be doing. These exams have been kicking my butt pretty heavily, and I've had time to scribble down a few lines for the next chapter, but not to write anything serious. I don't want to rush something out and lose parts of what I like, and what you hopefully like, about the story, which is why I didn't try and force out a 2,000-word filler chapter. I want every chapter to mean something in INL, to tell the story, and not to be there because I'm worried about you guys losing interest (which I am, on a daily basis, but let's ignore that...).

I want to write the best story I can for you guys, which is why I haven't tried to rush out a chapter over exams.

I finish exams on 29th May. Once I'm done, I promise, promise, promise you that I will write you the chapter you deserve.

I am not going to abandon this story. I'm seeing it through to the very end, and I hope you do that with me.

Jester x


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine. No matter how hard I try. Shame, really.

**AN: **I'm baaaaack! Here we go, guys, I'm so unbelievably sorry for how long it's taken to get to you. Life, you know? From know on, unless I have a reason not to (and I'll tell you in advance!), I'm going to aim to update at least once every 10 days. Also, for those of you who like to read it, I'll be starting a new Brittana AU fanfiction soon called 'Touch' - be sure to look out for it. Enjoy the chapter guys (it's a late happy birthday present to SantittanyForever, whose stories you should definitely check out), I hope you like it, and as always, I would love, love, love to hear from you! Don't hesitate to leave a review, whether positive or negative; your feedback means the world to me, guys, so thank you for all the follows/favourites/reviews so far.

* * *

Santana isn't looking for the first photo when she stumbles across it, the combination of pixels painted across her screen tearing through her carefully constructed morning routine in a way she could never have predicted.

Facebook shines comfortingly from the laptop lying open on the dinner table, a welcome anchor to her old life as the red circles scrawled messily around newspaper adverts and the crumpled flyers littering the surface measure her unsteady steps to carve herself a new one. She enjoys dancing at the bar, the easy rapport she somewhat surprisingly struck with her fellow dancers and the relative independence granted by her wages freeing her from the small-town mentality with which she hated to admit she had grown up, and the exhaustion that drained the muscles carrying her back up to the apartment after her closing shifts the previous two nights has been the only thing to break the cycle of introspective self-loathing that has consumed her since she stepped off the train from New Haven. Yet she came to New York with hopes of becoming more than an anonymous body to be pawed at by tourists and men escaping their girlfriends for the night, a desire to be worthy held since Santana first set foot in McKinley sparking her nerves, pushing her fingers to tap out endless searches for openings for lounge singers, backing singers, anything to drag her from the rut in which she fears becoming stuck.

(The insistent voice colouring every thought since her return questions Quinn's continued presence in the list of people for whose approval she yearns, slipping ahead of Brittany in a way so fitting it sets everything in Santana on edge.)

The Latina knows it's Quinn in the photo before she realises what the photo is, why it lies so innocently among news of poor grades and worse relationships; she recognises the messy hair styled by the blonde in the clinging heat of a party after one too many beers, the faded top she launched against Quinn's mirror before pinning her to the bed, the hand curled possessively around the neck of the girl she's pressed up against.

The girl she is pressed up against.

Santana has never been one for clichés, her quest for originality almost as strident as Kurt's, like a brand that marked them out as destined for more than Lima, yet the way her jaw slackens and drops is almost comical. A sickening jealousy burns through her, one the Latina previously associated only with wheelchairs and guitars, six packs and glasses. Possessiveness has her lunging for laptop, fingers clicking on the photo, enlarging it, torturing herself as she scans every inch. Her eyes track back and forth, burning every detail into her retinas until Santana is sure she will see the image printed everywhere she looks, but the longer she stares, the more she finds her anger is directed at herself, and not at the girl wrapped so tightly around her...around Quinn. The girl (a redhead, Santana notes absently, and tall where she is short; she wonders if the blonde chose her for her differences) can have no idea of the mess in which she has unknowingly become a part, the battleground seemingly opening anew between Santana and Quinn, land scarred by previous hostilities. The blonde has always done this, dragged in unwitting players to punish those close to her, and the cowardly lies spun on an empty train platform were all the motivation she needed to return to old habits.

(Recently, Santana has found herself praying to a god she thought she'd lost the moment she stepped off her abuela's porch that she'll learn to live without fear blackening every aspect of her life.)

Pale skin marked by insistent lips blooms against her eyelids the minute they flutter shut, the phantom pressure of that possessive hand guiding her head down to rest on the dinner table, shoulders slumping with a defeat she doesn't want to understand. She drags a few steadying breaths in through her nose, the smell of the rapidly cooling cup of coffee lying abandoned on the table enough to tug her from her memories, and pushes herself back up from her slumped position. Fingers itch to text Quinn, and her hand is halfway towards her phone before she remembers that all contact with the blonde has effectively been severed since she stepped onto the train. Constant texts and calls have given way to silence and a loneliness Santana hasn't felt in months teeters threateningly overhead. If Rachel and Kurt have noticed the lack of communication with her best friend, seen how she doesn't retreat into her curtained-off section of the apartment (they'd finally agreed to rearrange the space after Santana agreed not to mess with either Rachel's Barbra souvenirs or Kurt's extensive collection of scarves), voice lowered in an attempt to gain the privacy not granted by thin sheets, then neither of them have mentioned it, and she has never felt so grateful to either of them. Untangling her feelings in front of an audience is not something she feels ready to do.

Names both recognisable and new pile up beside the photo, a slew of comments adding captions to the image slowly unpicking the threads of the flimsy net straining to hold back her tangled mess of emotions. Her eyes float over the scattered words, lip curling at Puckerman's predictably crude encouragement, perhaps hoping to divine some guidance, some instruction on how to proceed, before her eyes stop at the final comment.

'_Guessing you had fun later that night, Quinn!_'

It's entirely innocent; a reasonable assumption from the image still painting Santana's eyelids on every blink, yet ice cold hurt douses the flames of anger still flickering at the base of her skull. She'd assumed she was the only woman with whom Quinn had slept, a label held with a bizarre mixture of protectiveness and pride, but...what if she isn't? What if she is merely one of two, three, four, of untold numbers of pretty girls, better girls, who have been granted the opportunity to experience the wonder of the blonde? Part of her knows she's being ridiculous, yet rationality fades beneath the jealous panic into which Santana whips herself, tearaway thoughts pressing down on her chest in a way that has her rushing to throw open the window, painful gasps shuddering her fears out into the crisp East Coast air.

She doesn't know how long she wastes at the window, the sound of faceless crowds and growing traffic jams washing over her, jolted from her position only by the piercing ringtone of her phone. It's not, as she hopes breathlessly in the few seconds before she answers, Quinn, but rather Rachel, ringing to ask if there is any soy milk left. The shortness of the Latina's tone gives nothing away, the turmoil she feels as she tries to parcel her morning's discovery neatly away in the back of her mind disguised as her usual morning irritability, and she begrudgingly complies with Rachel's request to check the fridge, a sense of normality slowly beginning to return as she reminds the Jewish girl that it is her turn to buy the wine for their movie night.

Gaze drifting once more to the table, Santana allows her eyes to rest on the photo before she slams her laptop shut with more force than necessary in a naive hope that forcing the image from sight will shatter the hold it has on her. It doesn't work, and the picture stains her every glance for the rest of the day, the flickering memory of pale hands wound in red hair enough to leave her unbalanced during even the simplest of tasks. Neither Rachel nor Kurt comment on her obvious distraction that evening, but the Latina doesn't miss the looks of confusion shot between her friends. Her mind screams at her to make them understand, to let loose the secrets plaguing it, yet her jaw stiffens against the oncoming confession, only able to force out a weary 'Night' as she retires to her bed.

A grim feeling of expectation clouds Santana's mind as she flips open her laptop the next morning, torn between a morbid desire to see if her predictions are right and a desperate wish to flee, to let the exhaustion blanketing her (brought on by a night spent tormenting herself with comparisons to the unknown redhead) carry her back to sleep and away from Quinn's punishment. Shaky fingers navigate to the blonde's profile and a lump forms painfully in her throat at the newest picture. Today's girl is blonde and taller still, reminiscent of her ex-girlfriend in a way that makes her want to hate Quinn; hips locked together mid-dance, the pale pink lips to which Santana has fallen prey press against the new girl's neck, and the ghost of similar actions flickers tortuously over the Latina's skin.

Her mind screams betrayal in a way to which she knows it has no right. She has earned her punishment, must do her penance for stamping out the flicker of hope in Quinn's eyes, yet the knowledge doesn't ease the sharp knife-twist of pain in her chest, brutal enough to have her gasping out.

The idea of love, of loving another of her best friends, is still obscured, tucked away in the shadowy recesses of her mind where she refuses to acknowledge it, but there is no longer any denying that the strength of her feelings for Quinn is one she thought would forever be reserved for Brittany.

It doesn't feel as much of a betrayal as she imagined it would.

(She felt more guilt over the glance in the library than she does now, a realisation that has her grasping the side of the table in an effort to steady herself. How did she miss Quinn replacing Brittany?)

(Should she have let her?)

Still, it terrifies the Latina. Her only experience of caring this much ended in disaster, precious hopes worn through by distance and fear. Even the naive, high school Santana, resolute in the belief that she and Brittany would last forever, was privately relieved that she would never be able to lose Quinn in the same way she stood to lose Brittany. Vulnerability only leads to pain, Santana can see no other result, and she doubts she has the strength to rebuild herself a second time. She didn't just lose a girlfriend when she broke up with Brittany; years of history, of water-fights and sneaking out, of failed attempts to stay awake for the sunrise, have been washed away, hidden behind painful smiles and stiff conversations. Santana still feels the emptiness now, gaping wounds her only discovery when she tries to recall happy laughter beneath a Lima sun, and the part of her mind responsible for the desperate attempts at self-preservation in the beds of the McKinley football team begs her not to risk suffering the same fate with Quinn.

The swoop in her chest tells her she has no choice.

* * *

Santana feigns indifference when Kurt asks her over coffee the next morning, the buzz of their favourite shop the backdrop to the morning gossip, if she has seen the photos of Quinn's latest exploits, hiding her rage of emotions behind a casual shrug and a sip of her drink. He won't be the first audience to her feelings. She won't grant him that, no matter how supportive a friend he has been since she moved to the city; the news would doubtless reach New Haven before she could. No, she owes that to Quinn, hopes the blonde will see it both a sign of her commitment and an apology for spurning her so carelessly. Words dance behind her eyes, a rush of excitement flooding through her as she writes and rewrites what she'll say, pictures how Quinn will react, wonders how much she'll have to beg to be allowed back into the dorm room…

It's not until Kurt mentions how much Quinn's taste in men has improved that she falters, mask slipping as her eyebrows shoot up in shock. A drip of coffee runs down her chin as she pulls her cup away too soon, questions ready to launch themselves from her lips, and she blushes beneath the inquisitive furrow of the pale boy's eyebrows as she reaches for the tissue he holds out to her.

"What was that?" she forces out, glancing distractedly in her compact as she brushes away the evidence of her slip.

"I said Quinn's taste in men has obviously improved," Kurt frowns. The curiosity is evident in his eyes and Santana avoids his gaze as she sets her bag back on the floor.

"What are you talking about? There have only been photos of her with girls recently."

Neither of them comment on how Santana contradicts her earlier indifference, Kurt too busy fishing his phone from the pocket of his ludicrously tight jeans as the Latina watches with a growing sense of apprehension. Fingers fumble to take the phone from him and nausea squeezes her stomach unrelentingly as her eyes fall to a picture of Quinn wrapped around a tall boy, a picture perfect example of the Fabrays' dearest wishes for their daughter.

(Santana wants to hate her for it.)

Kurt's mouth drops open to speak, to question Santana, yet he falls silent at something in her face, mouth closing with a snap as he pries his phone back from shaky fingers.

"Santana?" he tries quietly after a few silent moments, but she merely shakes her head at him, too lost in her own head to try conversation. She had assumed the photos were Quinn's way of punishing her, ensuring the evidence filtered into Santana's gaze when she couldn't be there to witness it first hand, but what if they weren't? What if Quinn has simply taken her parting words to heart, locking away any developing feelings and 'having fun' in light of the Latina's stupidity?

Is it possible that Santana has managed to lose Quinn before the blonde could truly become hers to lose?

"Santana?"

"What, Hummel?" she snaps, a bite to her voice that she has managed to almost completely erase when talking to her flatmates over the past months.

"What's wrong? You must have known Quinn's bisexual...I mean, you are her best friend."

Santana almost wants to laugh, the bitter sound bubbling teasingly in her throat, because yes, she is, and yes, Quinn is. Or at least, she assumes Quinn is, the memory of a quiet confession in a coffee shop not unlike the one in which she sits filtering into her mind. Quinn never actually gave herself a label, 'not straight' a big enough accomplishment after a childhood more rigidly defined by religion than Santana's own; if she is honest with herself, Santana knows she was hoping Quinn would be gay, not because of the ridiculous fear she saw littering the message-boards and forums that for months were her only haven that bisexuals were more likely to cheat (Brittany's enduring loyalty to her, even when she didn't deserve it, more than put paid to that idea), but because there are now twice as many people who can show Quinn how much better she can do than the Latina. Santana couples a fierce possessiveness with a lack of belief in her own worth, and the images clouding her vision are proof enough of the vast number of unknown rivals with whom she would have to compete in every word, in every kiss. It's a ridiculous fear, and the rational part of her brain scoffs impatiently at her morbid determination to predict the futility of pursuing Quinn.

"Yeah...yeah, I knew," she mumbles stiffly, dimly aware of the need to fill the silence stretching between the two of them. Soft conversations wash over their table as she searches for something, anything, to say, but Kurt beats her to it, quiet voice cutting through the noise as effectively as if he was shouting at her.

"Then why are you...oh."

The two letters sound far more knowing than she wants them to be and panic seizes her, prickling uncomfortably against the back of her neck as she fights to keep still beneath Kurt's cool gaze. She opens her mouth to speak, to snap at him in a tone that would warn him to keep away from the subject, yet questions crackle in the air around his painstakingly coiffed hair, the long seconds taken to choose his opener the only time Santana has to prepare herself.

"How long?" Kurt asks slowly, and Santana wants to lie, but something inside her breaks, the struggle to hold back everything that has been happening with Quinn finally ending as her secrets push forward in a final surge, spilling themselves without conscious thought.

"Since you kicked me out," the Latina mumbles, unable to keep the edge of accusation from her voice. "Well, the first time was at Schue's wedding, but it didn't happen again until you kicked me out. I went to stay with her," she adds by way of an explanation, seeing the brief flicker of confusion over Kurt's face.

"So you two are...?"

Santana sighs. "We're nothing. I'm stupid and I didn't want to be anything..." She winces, the explanation sounding cruel even to her own ears. "I just mean...after Britt, y'know? I didn't want to be the girl who falls for her two best friends and then ends up losing both of them."

It's the first time she's said Brittany's name to anyone other than Quinn in months, and the twisted humour of the situation makes her want to cry.

"What did you do?" Kurt asks with a resigned air, sighing at the offended glance Santana shoots at him. "Don't give me that. You just said you've been stupid, and don't think I haven't noticed how you haven't spoken to her since Monday, so what did you do?"

"Freaked out when somebody suggested we were dating, and then got very possessive when I saw somebody flirting with her at a party the same night. She asked me what we were just before I got on the train home and I...I panicked and said we were just having fun..." she trails off weakly. It sounds even worse when listed plainly like that.

"You're an idiot," Kurt sighs, shaking his head in exasperation, and though Santana agrees with him, she can't stop the indignant 'watch it' slipping from her lips. "No, you are...Santana, if she's asking you what you are, she clearly wants you to be something."

The Latina nods because she knew that even before Quinn asked, had seen the hope burning in hazel eyes, felt the lingering kisses the blonde pressed to her shoulder before slipping from the bed.

"So the question is," Kurt continues, unable to see the regret flashing in her eyes as she keeps her gaze lowered, "do _you_ want there to be something?"

"Yeah, I...I think I really do, Kurt," Santana sighs before taking a sip of the coffee that has cooled too much to be enjoyable. "I just...I'm scared. Look at how badly things ended with Britt."

"In the nicest way possible, you need to forget about Brittany. Or, not forget about her, but recognise that that's over, okay? You can't let the fact that you two didn't end up how you expected to damage all of your future relationships. Santana and Brittany are very different to Santana and Quinn."

She knows Kurt is right, but it's a bitter pill to swallow from a boy who is still allowing his feelings to be messed around by his ex-boyfriend. She's only just learnt to exist without the taller blonde constantly by her side, thanks in no small part to Quinn; forgetting her doesn't seem like a task Santana can easily achieve.

"How do I fix this, Kurt?" she asks softly, drawing his attention back from where its wanderings around the coffee shop.

"Go to New Haven and grovel would be my best bet. I think you two need to have a chat that can't really be done on the phone...and I don't imagine she's answering your calls anyway, is she?"

Santana shakes her head, the ghost of a smile turning the corners of her lips at the teasing edge to Kurt's voice. Setting her cup down on the table, she pushes her chair back as she stands before bending down to pick up her bag. "Don't tell Rachel," she adds as an afterthought.

"You have such little faith in me," Kurt breathes out on a half-laugh, slipping his jacket over his shoulders. The look with which Santana fixes him has pink blooming across his cheeks before he shakes his head in amusement, gesturing for Santana to lead the way to the door. "Alright, I'm a die-hard gossip, but you also know I'm a ridiculous romantic, and somehow I don't see Rachel telling Quinn how you feel as doing much good for your cause."

* * *

The 10.07 train leaves from Grand Central, powering its way along the tracks as it heads north, unknown stories starting as it carries countless people away from New York.

Santana isn't one of them.

Her bag lies fully packed on the bed yet Santana perches beside it, motionless as she stares blindly at the sheets bordering her room. Something has her rooted to the spot, the fear she thought she overcame yesterday returning this morning with a vengeance, hanging over her every move until it is all she can do not to drive herself into a fully-blown panic attack.

Rachel has already left for the day, daily vocal scales fading into silence as she disappeared onto a sickeningly romantic date which whichever upperclassman on whom she is currently fixated. From the quietness of the apartment, the Latina assumed Kurt had also disappeared until a pale hand parts the sheets that form the doorway to her section of the apartment and the boy in question steps inside.

"Still here?" he asks softly, moving across to sit beside her in the bed, his real question silent. Santana finds she can only answer it with a half-hearted shrug.

"What happened to the big bad Santana Lopez who led the bully whips and protected me from David Karofsky?"

Santana smiles softly at the memory, shaking her head in amusement. "She realised there are worse ways to be hurt than by a bunch of razor blades."

"True," Kurt nods, and she can hear the smile in his voice. "But there are also much better ways to spend your day than sat in an empty apartment in Bushwick."

Silence falls between them, yet it isn't strained, more like a comfortable blanket in the way it coats them. Santana still sometimes finds herself surprised at how easily she can exist with Kurt, and she can't help but mourn the missed opportunities of McKinley.

"I'm scared, Kurt," she breathes out after a few minutes.

"I know. And if I were in your position, I would be slightly wary too…Quinn's got a mean slap on her. But I don't think you've got anything serious to be scared of. Just let yourself be happy again, Santana."

"Thanks, Porcelain," she mumbles softly, a gentle blush painting itself over her cheeks as she turns to smile at him.

"Anytime, Lezpez."

* * *

The knock against Quinn's door seems loud against the quietness of the dorm corridor, students no doubt still sleeping off hangovers from the night before. The lack of a reaction from the other side of the wooden barrier worries her, a dampener on her plans for a grand arrival, before a muffled 'hang on a sec' reaches her and the door is wrenched open. Santana finds Quinn beautiful in her simplicity, hair messy and sleep shorts ruffled, a textbook hanging from her hand and a pen tucked behind her ear; she only just manages to stop herself from saying so, the frown that furrows the blonde's brow hinting that it may be difficult to even get the blonde to listen to her.

"Oh," Quinn mumbles, and the lack of a welcome, though entirely expected, hurts in ways Santana didn't think it could.

"Can I come in?" she asks softly, and she imagines it is only the shock of hearing Santana sound so defeated that has Quinn pulling the door further open and stepping aside on her first request. The Latina steps inside the small room, hint of a smile curling her lips as she sees the hoody she left here weeks ago poorly tucked away beneath Quinn's pillow. Silence falls uncomfortably as she gazes around the room, eyes settling on books, clothes, the open window, anywhere but the blonde she came here to see.

"Well? Did you come here to say anything, or are just going to stand there? I've got things I could be doing," Quinn mutters irritably as the minutes stretch on.

"Don't you mean people?" Santana spits, the anger she's suppressed over the past four days returning to her as she lunges for the opportunity to attack, offence long her most trusted form of defence.

Quinn scoffs, throwing her textbook onto her desk as she shakes her head. "You've got no right to complain about that. You're the one who said we were just having fun."

"I didn't mean that."

"And how I am I supposed to fucking know that, Santana? You never give me a straight answer, you do something that has me thinking one thing then go and say the complete opposite. I'm not a fucking mind-reader!"

"The amount of games you've been playing this week, you could forgive me for thinking so...did you have to get with a girl who looked exactly like Brittany?" Santana asks, fighting to keep her voice steady. She doesn't want the whole corridor listening in to what was meant to be a quiet conversation with Quinn.

"I thought that would get your attention," the blonde smirks nastily, arms crossing with an air of triumph that has Santana itching to slap her.

"You know, there are these marvellous things called phones that are fucking _designed_ to get people's attention..."

"Yeah, you'd have loved that if I called, wouldn't you? Poor old Quinn, can't survive without Santana deigning to sleep with her for one weekend...why are you here, Santana? I didn't ask you to be and you didn't bloody ask if I wanted to see you this weekend before you turned up presuming I'd let you in."

"Oh don't spin me that bullshit, you haven't had to give me 'permission' to come for weeks! You've been just as eager to see me as I've..." Santana pauses, shaking away the stray train of thought before she gives herself away too early, yet Quinn seizes on the hesitation viciously.

"Christ, you still can't say it, can you? You still can't say that you actually want to be here, that you want to be around me. Of course I fucking picked a girl who looked like Brittany, at least you took her seriously, the only thing you notice me for is sex!"

The blonde's shoulders slump in a defeat Santana immediately wants to banish. Quinn pads over to throw herself into her desk chair before dropping her head into her hands; Santana aches to step up behind her and gather the other girl into her arms, to press soft kisses of reassurance to the back of her neck, but it's too soon, she knows it's soon. Too much hangs unsaid in the air between them.

"That's not...you can't think that's true, Q."

"Why not?" she shrugs, back still turned towards Santana. "You don't really give me much more, S...look how much you freaked out last weekend when Stefan thought you were my girlfriend."

"I know, I know," Santana sighs, dropping her bag at the foot of Quinn's bed before she perches cautiously on the end of it. "I'm sorry, Quinn. I just...I got scared."

"Yeah, no shit," Quinn snorts, shaking her head, but the chair creaks as she slowly spins it around to face Santana.

Santana ignores the jibe as her gaze falls to her hands, reaching within her for the same calm that Kurt instilled in her as the pale boy accompanied her to Grand Central. Only as she hears Quinn fidget does she look up, lip drawn between her teeth as she takes in the expectant look on the blonde's face.

"I...I like you, Quinn. I like you a lot, okay? And that terrifies me...I've never liked anybody apart from Brittany, you have no idea how weird this is for me." She frowns, knowing it isn't the best idea to be mentioning her ex-girlfriend so much, but it's the only way she can think to explain her hesitance so that Quinn will understand. "If I'm honest, I...I didn't want to like you at first. I mean, I've already fucked up my friendship with Britt, I couldn't bear the thought of doing the same thing with you. I think everything that happened with her has just made me really war-..."

"I'm not Brittany," Quinn interrupts indignantly and a touch self-consciously.

"And I don't want you to be. Trust me, Q, I don't... I'm just explaining why I kept ruining things, pretending there was nothing there when there clearly was. I just...I got scared, Q. I got scared and I got stupid, but I don't want to do that anymore."

She holds Quinn's stare despite the itch on the back of her neck telling her to look away, despite every instinct screaming at her to run, to run and never look back; she sits still beneath the blonde's gaze, hazel eyes tracking back and forth over her face in search of something, some unknown proof of Santana's honesty. Whatever she searches for, Quinn seems to find it, frown softening into the beginnings of a smile, tensions leaking out of her shoulders as she uncrosses her arms.

"So what does that mean for us?"


End file.
